I freeze at the kitchen counter, my hand poised over the cookie jar. My mother sits at the table, serenely sipping her teaas she watches my face. I wonder what she sees in my expression. Joy? Terror? Regret? Frustration? I’m feeling all of that, so I’m curious which emotion is most obvious.
Regret, I imagine. Because boy, do I harbor a ton of regret for the way I handled my departure from Toronto. After the disaster at the rink, I just couldn’t stay in that apartment one second longer. I came home and ran one more airline ticket search. When I spotted a last-minute fare to San Francisco, I didn’t even hesitate. And hey—it cost a lot less than the trip that Wes wanted to plan. A jobless guy can’t afford a beach resort.
It wasn’t Wes’s fault that I really needed to get away, but the look on his face still haunts me.
My hand closes around one of my mother’s seven-grain cookies with raisins. They’re healthier than a cookie really should be. But when in Rome. “What did Wes say?” I finally ask, taking a bite.
Mom sighs. “He wanted to know how you’re doing. Sounds like he hasn’t heard much from you.”
Ouch. I’ve been ducking him out of guilt. Now I only feel worse. “He hasn’t,” I admit.
“And why is that?”
“Well…” I grab a napkin and join her at the table. “I don’t know how to explain what’s wrong. I’ve been really unhappy, but I don’t want him to think it’s his fault.”
Mom swirls her cup around, her expression thoughtful. “But if you don’t tell him, he’ll just assume it’s his fault anyway.”
The cookie suddenly tastes like dust, but I’m not sure it’s the cookie’s fault. “So what you’re saying is that I’m an asshole?”
She laughs. “No, and don’t use that word at my table.”
“Sorry,” I say through the cookie. I get up and head to the refrigerator for milk before this thing kills me. And I can’t die, right? Not before I’ve hashed things out with Wes. I dump the rest of the carton into a big glass and chug it.
She’s studying me when I come back to the table. “So what are you going to do?”
“Talk to him?”
“Besides that. If you’re unhappy, there must be a reason.”
Or a dozen of them. My life in Toronto is a tangled knot that I don’t know how to untie. I haven’t told a soul about the emails I’ve gotten from Bill Braddock. The worst one arrived before my plane even left the tarmac in Toronto:
Dear Coach Canning—
I regret to inform you that Danton has filed a complaint against you for the altercation after the game today. Attached please find his signed complaint form. You have fourteen days to respond before the disciplinary committee makes a final decision. Since you’re on sick leave, it wasn’t necessary for me to consider any further actions at this point.
And Jamie—please call me. You haven’t responded to my earlier suggestions to report your colleague’s misbehavior. If you don’t tell your side of the story, it’s hard for me to help you.
Your team continues to perform well, and it’s my sincere hope to see you skating with them very soon.
—B.B.
He sent a couple of follow-up emails, but I’ve been too embarrassed to respond.
“My job isn’t going well,” I mumble at Mom. “I might be unemployed before summer.”
“I’msorry, honey,” she whispers. “That can happen to anyone. But I’m sure it’s scary when it’s your first real job.”
I feel a shiver of horror just thinking about it. When I got this job I thought,this is it!My future was all figured out.
Not so much.
“If the coaching job doesn’t work out, I’m so stuck. Another team won’t want me. My work visa is specific to my organization. I can’t just waltz in anywhere and get hired. What the hell am I going to do?” Christ, I haven’teversaid this out loud. It sounds even worse in my parents’ kitchen than it does in my head.
She reaches across the table to squeeze my hand. “It happens, baby. You can’t take it personally.”
Oh, but I can. How else am I going to take it?
“Does Wes know?” When I shake my head, her gaze only becomes more pitying. “You have to talk to him. Now seems like a good time.”
